


The Hollow Men

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bleak, Dark, Gen, Sad, lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok. Well. This didn't go as expected. I was hoping for a brief, plausible Sherstrade. It didn't go that way. </p><p>Maybe later it will redeem itself from echoing gloom. But it didn't this time.</p><p>The title was not chosen in advance, but pressed itself on me when it came time to call it something. I looked up the poem to determine if it was as appropriate as my subconscious was insisting. It was. The grim, sad rustling of T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men" is almost perfect accompaniment for this piece. </p><p>Let's just say in this story both Greg and Sherlock at least temporarily have come to the ends of optimism--and neither is managing to leap past his own character deficits to change that.</p><p>I considered not posting in the first place. It's not fun, it's not porn, it's character study--and character study of two characters at a dark point of emotional shadow. But, hey: some of you seem to find the character studies intersting and the writing itself of some value. So--here it is. Abandon hope, all ye who enter, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow Men

“You have a case, Giacomo,” Sherlock said from the shadows of the underground car park.

Lestrade jumped and swore. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, don’t do that!”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” The question was ironic, not serious. Both knew that Lestrade was legal to carry. Both knew that in light of his official rank and function within the Met, he didn’t commonly do so. People might ask the wrong questions.

“Or I’ll bloody refuse to show you my cases,” Lestrade snapped. “Not like I owe you access, sunshine.”

“Tsk-tsk. And after all the cases I’ve solved, and all the times I’ve spared you the humiliation of being wrong.”

“Yeah, right. And all the times I’ve supported your cover and kept you from boredom…”

“I pay my way.”

“Maybe. If you don’t count the big stuff that never goes on the books.” Lestrade studied the younger man. They’d fought before over Sherlock and Mycroft’s cavalier treatment of other people’s lives. Lestrade was of the opinion he’d never managed to drive his point home, any more than he could have convinced a cat that it had no right to cream and the sunny place on the bed and the chicken thawing on the kitchen counter.  “Went through the wringer for you over Moriarty—and in the end what you do and your clever-pants brother do to me? Those two years you were dead weren’t all that pretty, you know. And the year since? Bugger _that_ for a game of soldiers….”

Sherlock sauntered over. The cold overhead lights cast his eyes into shadow, highlighted his cheekbones and clean jawline against the deep hollows of cheeks and throat. “You lived. You’ve advanced.” Lestrade’s complex professional life drifted between them, unspoken but mutually understood. “It all worked out in the end.”

“You Holmes boys keep accounts like a crooked bookie,” Lestrade grumbled.

“You’d know…try placing the next bet with Jeffers. His figures are less creative.”

Lestrade scowled. “Don’t change the subject. You owe me for the past few years. Owe a lot of us.”

 “You lived. And you weren’t surprised to see me come back.”

“Unlike John, I always knew who and what you could draw on. May not have known—but with Mycroft and MI6 on your side it was always a possibility.”

“ _Did_ you know? Did Mycroft bring you in on it?” Sherlock said, boldly fishing in Lestrade’s pockets and pulling out his cigarettes and lighter. He shook out two fags, popped both in his mouth, and lit them together, before handing one to Lestrade.

Lestrade watched, irony-eyed and unimpressed. “Someday you’re going to get over thinking you’re in a noir spy movie.” But he drew on the cigarette, savoring the smoke. “No. I didn’t know, and Mycroft didn’t tell me.“ he added, cutting into Sherlock’s intended response “ But I guessed it was possible. Anderson—he came up with so many mental ways you could have lived. Most of ‘em were pure shite—but there were plenty that would work if you said just one magic word.”

“Which was?”

“Mycroft.”

“Mmmmmm.” Sherlock shot the older man a considering look from under dark lashes. “You’re entirely too impressed by Mycroft’s abilities. I may have to do something to disillusion you. He doesn’t fart rainbows.”

Lestrade almost laughed, but didn’t. He looked steadily at Sherlock, took a draw on the cigarette, then dropped his hand to hang easily at his hip, cigarette tip out, smoke drifting up. “Jealous?”

.“Why should I be? Worship at his altar, if you must, then. I don’t care and he wouldn’t either.”

“Couple of cold fish, you two, right? Carp. Sentiment’s a dirty word.”

“Better carp than goldfish.”

Lestrade cocked his head. “Goldfish?”

“Never mind. Give me a lift to the Copper Mug.”

“Wasn’t planning on going pubbing.”

“I didn’t _invite_ you.”

“Just wanted to beg a lift, then?” Sherlock snorted his disgust, and Lestrade said, “I see. Not an invitation, a summons.”

“You _are_ slow tonight. Have you checked for early onset Alzheimers?”

“You could take a cab.”

“Or I could ask for a lift from my old associate, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Detective Chief inspector Lestrade.”

“Yes—right. I forgot the promotion in my effort to take the misery of the last three years seriously. The effort distracted me.”

“Bastard,” Lestrade said, but it was more a combination of resignation and affection than of reproach. “Yeah, ok, sure—I’ll drive you over. If you ask me nicely I’ll even come in and drink a pint with you to provide backup and cover.” He clicked open the doors with his key fob, then dropped his cigarette, crushing it on the pavement.

“Good—you pick up the first round,” Sherlock said, folding himself into the passenger seat without so much as a “thank you.”

Lestrade sighed and eased into the driver’s side, slipping the key in the ignition and starting the engine. He didn’t speak again until he’d backed out of his place and navigated his way through the streets to B323, headed roughly north.

“You really do want to give me the Waters case,” Sherlock said, still smoking his cigarette—apparently determined to smoke it down to the filter before giving up.

“No, I don’t,” Lestrade snapped. “You’re a pushy blighter, Sherlock, but the Waters case is mine.”

“Which explains so much about their continued liberty.”

Lestrade actually surrendered to temptation, letting go the steering wheel long enough to smack Sherlock’s arm with the back of his wrist. “Tosser. It’s your damned fault they got away wi’ it last time.”

“My fault? Mine? I’ve had nothing to do with the case—as proven by your bumbling lack of progress.”

“Who’s the idiot who called me for help the last time we were about to nab ‘em?”

“John’s wedding was important,” Sherlock growled, and slumped deep into the seat. He took a final draw on the gasper before unrolling the window and tossing it.

Lestrade drove on, silent.

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t tell me you’re holding a grudge about that?” Sherlock turned and looked at him, incredulous. “Really, Gomez, I didn’t think you were that petty!”

Lestrade didn’t answer. He just drove on, face set and still, eyes on the road. He parked at a car park several blocks from the pub, but left the engine running.

“Well, come along,” Sherlock said, unfolding himself onto the pavement and leaning back into the car. “I haven’t got all night.”

“You go along,” Lestrade said, his voice calm and empty. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

Sherlock scowled, but didn’t pull back out of the car. “You’re being childish.”

“And if anyone should know…”

“Yes, fine, whatever. I’m a veritable monster. Now get out of the car and come on in.”  Sherlock waited, then, in a wheedling voice, said, “Oh, very well— _I’ll_ buy the first round.”

Lestrade turned to him, then, exasperated. “Damn it, Sherlock, it’s not about the round, or about cadging lifts or copping my cigarettes—or even my warrant card. It’s not about whether you ‘solve all my cases.’ Well—maybe it’s a bit about that. But mainly—look. I wasn’t joking. I’m just tired, all right? Time to pack it in. Go on—off with you. Hurry along or we’ll still be here come closing.” He turned back, checked the street, and growled, “Shut the sodding door, Sherlock,” without looking back at the younger man again.

Sherlock scowled, studying Lestrade. “You’re being ridiculous, you know.”

“Door. Shut. Sodding-door-shut.” Lestrade’s voice wasn’t the brisk, confident snap he had often used to keep his team in line, or the blazing growl of his rare anger, or the peevish grumble he often took on when he’d just had enough of Sherlock’s tomfoolery. Instead it was plain as bubble-and-squeak—all the energy cooked out of it, each word falling into the night air and gone. “Now.”

Sherlock blinked, blinked again, then leaned back. He closed the door with a firm push.

“Night, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, and wheeled the car forward and sharply into the roadway. Then he was gone.

Sherlock frowned, watching the taillights disappear down the way. After a moment he got out his phone.

_John, is there anything wrong with Lestrade? SH_

_Not so far as I know. Why?_

_He blew me off. SH_

_Blew you off? What? How’d he blow you off?_

_Just drove off. Wouldn’t go into the pub for a pint and a talk. SH_

_Talk about what?_

_Waters case. SH_

_What?_

_The Waters case. He’s been trying to get them jailed for over two years, now. SH_

_Huh. Can’t say I knew about them. Did we work on this with him?_

_No. I wanted him to bring me in. SH_

_Yeah, well—give him time. He usually gives in once he’s had time to think about the alternatives._

_He’s had time.  SH_

_And while I’m at it—why should he be angry that I solve all his cases for him? SH_

_Well, to begin with, you don’t._

_All the ones that matter. SH_

_That’s not quite true, either._

_John, don’t be silly. Of course I solve the important ones. That’s what I’m for. SH_

_And what’s he for?_

_Calling me in when it becomes obvious it’s important. SH_

_Someone has to wade through all the tedious bits, after all. SH_

_You do know the wonder is he didn’t kill you before driving off?_

_What? Why? SH_

_For God’s sake, Sherlock—a man’s got his pride. And he’s a good detective._

_Well, for a rather low value of the word, I suppose. SH_

_Give him time. He’ll come down from this eventually._

_Where does he live? SH_

_You don’t know?_

_Why bother? If he’s not at the Met I make him meet me at home. SH_

_Yeah—no wonder he just loves you to bits. No—I don’t know his new address._

_New address? SH_

_Yeah—moved at least three times since the divorce. I know that much._

_When? SH_

_I don’t know. I know he was in a bedsit for a few months after you “died.”_

_Why? SH_

_Suspended on half-pay, I think. Couldn’t meet the rent at the place he took after the divorce._

_And the address? SH_

_Don’t have it, I told you._

_Why not? John, what use are you if you don’t keep track of things like that? SH_

_Sherlock, shut it._

_What? SH_

_Just—shut it. I don’t know where he lives, all right?_

_Why not? You know all those things. You know his name, and what beer he likes. Where does he live? SH_

_I have no idea—he moved after you jumped. I wasn’t seeing him much at the time. All right?_

_No, it’s not all right—I could be all night getting his address now. This shows a singular lack of forethought, John. SH_

_Sherlock—this is Mary, love. Snatched the phone before John could toss it at the wall._

_Do you know Lestrade’s address? SH_

_I think it’s in our papers from the wedding, yeah?_

_Ah—brilliant! I’ll check the files on the laptop when I get home. SH_

_Sherlock? What’s happening?_

_Nothing—I just want to talk to him. SH_

_Try when he’s had a night’s sleep, love._

_Don’t be ridiculous. I’m much better off getting him while his defenses are down. SH_

_Don’t say I didn’t warn you, sweetie. Night—Mary._

Sherlock, sure of his cleverness, let her warning go, instead shoving his phone in his pocket and flagging down a cab to take him to Baker Street, where it idled at the kerb until Sherlock had Lestrade’s address.

 

It was at least twelve-thirty when Lestrade strode up the pavement to the building his flat was in. It was a little place on Vauxhall Grove: pricey—but he could just about manage a tiny bijoux of a flat now that his ex had remarried and he’d been promoted. It was south of SIS headquarters, and if he absolutely had to he could walk to work—though he’d have to start early. On the other hand there were buses and cabs, which was why he’d left his car in the car park by the local pub he’d gone to after leaving Sherlock gaping in the middle of the street outside the Copper Mug.

He felt better. He’d won a small wager with another regular regarding the date of the last official hanging in England; he’d had two pints; he’d eaten a better than average plate of shepherd’s pie—and he’d done all of it without the abrasive company of Sherlock Sodding Holmes. And tomorrow was Saturday, and now that he was a DCI, not just a DI, that meant that odds were he could sleep in. He’d only get called in for something truly extraordinary. Rather like Sherlock, now he came to think of it. No wonder the bastard liked it that way!

All in all he was fairly pleased with himself, humming tunelessly under his breath as he turned the key in the lock and slid into the ground-storey flat— _his_ flat, with just enough room and a tiny patch of garden out back.

“Took you long enough.”

He jumped, dropped the keys, lost his balance, toppled and failed to recover, cracked one knee—two knees trying to straighten—then lost control finally and for the last time, cracking his head on the corner of the shallow cast iron frame of the inset fireplace. He swore, fighting back dizziness and stars flashing behind his eyes. “You bastard,” he gasped. “Fuck me, are you ever going to…” He stopped, trying to work out what he wanted to say, and failing. _Respect my privacy_ wasn’t something you bothered saying to Sherlock. It meant nothing to the other man, so far as Lestrade could tell. At least—it was a one-way understanding. Sherlock’s privacy demanded respect. Everyone else’s, though, was supposed to be Sherlock’s dance floor, where he could waltz at his will.

“Hell,” he said, finally, wearily. “Hell. Just—go, Sherlock. Please? Before I puke and disgust us both?”

Sherlock frowned. “Too much to drink?”

“No, you stupid tosser,” Lestrade snapped. “Cracked my head on the fireplace, now, didn’t I? Look—just… Go. Just go.” He closed his eyes and reached out, cautiously, finding the wall, finding the fireplace frame, inching one leg up, ignoring the pain in his knees—not just the sharp stab of bruises and strains, but the dull, slow ache of joints beginning to grow sullen and ill-tempered with age. He clung to the fireplace frame, wishing it protruded even farther—it would have either killed him outright, he thought, or it would have provided him with something to hang onto properly as he tried to rise from the floor. Either would be better than this.

Hands reached out and steadied him, straightening him as he knelt. “Steady—steady. How bad?”

“I’m conscious,” Lestrade growled. “And I can’t keep kneeling like this, Sherlock. Knees are killing me. If you don’t have the decency to leave, then gi’ me a hand up.”

Sherlock scrambled up, tucked one palm under Lestrade’s arm, and with the other grabbed a wrist and braced. “Up you go, then.” When Lestrade was up, he slipped close and steadied him, saying only, “Where’s your loo?”

“Why?”

“Bandages. Lights. Antiseptic. Paracetemol. Are those sufficient reasons?”

“Yeah, sure, fine. Down the hall to the right.” They set off together, moving slowly. The room was in motion.

“Are you all right, Lestrade?”

“Vertigo—Jesus. Sherlock…”

“Here’s the door,” Sherlock interrupted, and shifted them in, easing Lestrade down until he sat on the cover of the loo, feeling an utter prat. “Are your eyes shut? I’m turning on the light.”

Both men gasped and muttered as the light came on.

“How bad is it?” Lestrade asked, hand rising to find the injury and coming away moist and sticky.

“I don’t know, yet,” Sherlock growled. “Give me a moment.”

“Yeah, right, sorry.” He waited, hurting and embarrassed and annoyed all at once. “What are you doing here anyway? Thought I left you back at the Copper Mug.”

“Came here,” Sherlock said. “I hadn’t planned on you leaving, so I chose to repair your error.”

“Not my error, sunshine.”

There was silence, then Sherlock said, sullenly, “You apparently found the corner of the fireplace frame. Deep gouge. You’re bleeding.”

“Stitches?”

“Depends.” Sherlock’s fingers were not gentle, though they were confident and apparently skilled. He prodded his way around the sore wound, making Lestrade gasp and swear softly. “Do you have proper butterfly plaster? Or even decent medical tape? Or surgical glue?”

“That bad?”

“Not bad-bad. Just somewhat nasty,” Sherlock said. “You don’t need the A&E, I think.” Then, with a tightly controlled frustration, he added, “John would know better, though. Shall I call him?”

“Fuck.” Lestrade, eyes still closed against the glare of the bathroom light, leaned back. The tank of the toilet braced his shoulders, cold and smooth. “Fuck. No, Sherlock. I don’t want John to come kiss my owie. I want tp wipe it off, smack a plaster over it, and go to bed.”

Sherlock was silent. After a moment he stood, and Lestrade could hear him rummaging around, first through the medicine cupboard over the sink, then in the larger cupboard at the end of the wall, where Lestrade kept additional supplies and towels. “Your first aid selection leaves something to be desired,” he growled, voice deeper than ever—a low vibration that resonated in the little tiled room. “I doubt there’s even one tube that hasn’t passed its sell-by date.”

“I don’t usually get injured,” Lestrade said. “And if it’s too serious to hold until I get to the A&E, it’s too serious to be trying to treat myself here anyway.”

“The worst accidents happen in the home.”

“Not in my life, they don’t. Copper, Sherlock. And I work with MI5. And with your brother.” He stopped, then, too aware of the anger and misery in that last sentence.

“Oh-ho,” Sherlock crooned, “What has my brother done to you, lately?”

“Nothing.” Lestrade’s eyes twitched, and he felt the tug of drying, clotting blood at the corner of one, where the lashes were slowly being glued together. “Gi’ me a face flannel? Blood’s getting nasty.” He heard Sherlock run the hot water, splash as he soaked the flannel, then heard the drip and splash as he wrung it out.

“Here,” he said. “Keep away from your temple. I need to work on that.”

“Yeah, sure, fine.” Lestrade dabbed cautiously at the area around his eye, scrubbing lightly and testing gently. At last his eye opened easily, and he handed the flannel back.

“So—what _did_ Mycroft do to you?” Sherlock asked, after he’d rinsed the flannel and begun his own exploratory clean-up.

“Nothing,” Lestrade said again. Then, “Nothing, really. Truth is I’m a bit busy for much field work on the side these days in any case, between one thing and another.”

“He’s taken you off my case?” Sherlock said, sounding stunned. “You are no longer his hidden hound, nosing at my trail?”

“You should be so lucky,” Lestrade snapped.

“My keeper still, then?”

“Not your keeper, either—never was.”

“My safety net, then.”

Lestrade didn’t deny that one.  Instead he said, “Didn’t lose one. Gained a second one.”

Sherlock swore, angry as a wet cat. “Can he not refrain from hovering?”

“After your stunt at Appledore?” Lestrade shook his head and regretted it massively. “You’re lucky you can walk down the street without a uniformed platoon. I think Mycroft’s managed to talk his masters out of extreme meddling, but you make your bed, yeah? You’re just going to have to lie in it.”

Sherlock started attending to the deep cut on Lestrade’s temple. He wasn’t gentle, as he first washed blood away with dampened toilet tissue, then with the face flannel. He squeezed out a gooey glob of antiseptic, smeared it on the wound, and quickly secured a pad of gauze with strips of tape. “Just sit there,” he said, and began returning supplies to their proper place. “When you get up, tell me if you’re still dizzy.”

“Had enough beer tonight it may not be the fall. Took the cab home instead of driving, just in case,” Lestrade said. He risked a glance over at Sherlock—his first real look since he’d arrived home.

The younger man was tense, narrow-eyed, and restless, moving at his tasks with an ill-contained anger. “Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, no. You were clearly going to say something. Perhaps more pithy observations? Another damning assessment of my own culpability in my current status as most-spied-on sibling in British History? Another rejection of my help with a difficult case? By all means, speak!”

“God, you’re a stroppy bastard,” Lestrade said. “I used to tell myself you’d outgrow it, but here we are: You’re so close to forty you could piss on its boots, and you’re still whinging like a spoiled teenager. You know, your brother’s got power—but England’s not a banana republic or a new-born caliphate. He doesn’t have the power to spy on you without oversight and just grounds, sunshine. On you especially. People keep track of these things. Mycroft’s got people over him to drag his arse in and say, ‘And you’re using government resources to watch that skinny junky detective because why?’ Of course, then you made sure he’d have an easy answer, didn’t you? ‘Because Sherlock occasionally kills famous men.’”

Sherlock glowered, but said nothing. He slammed the medicine cabinet shut, and stalked from the room.

Lestrade leaned back, hoping the bloody-minded bastard would just go home to Baker Street. Instead he heard him prowling the rooms beyond like a surly lion, slamming the door of the fridge and crashing the tea kettle onto the docking station. With a weary sigh and significant pain he stood, flicked off the overhead light, and crept out to the kitchen.

“Shite,” he muttered, seeing Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table shoveling into a plate holding all the leftover mu gu gai pan Lestrade had been planning to eat. “That’s my supper, you tosser.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Then you really should have accompanied me to the Copper Mug, where I’d have satisfied my appetite with a plate of shepherd’s pie and a pint,” he growled.

“Jeez, you’re like the creepy witch in a fairy story,” Lestrade said, wandering over to the fridge and opening it, wondering what, if anything, might remain to make up for the mu gu gai pan. “You know—the ones who are right bitches, and the girl proves she’s the one true heroine by being sweet as honey anyway?”

“You’re hardly the one true heroine, then,” Sherlock pointed out, between bites. “You’re not exactly sweetness and light.”

“And you’re not going to make me spit gold and marry me off to my dream prince.”

Sherlock paused and considered. “True,” he said, as though surprised Lestrade had been able to marshal such a telling point. Then he added, “But I do solve your cases for you.”

“No, sunshine, you solve my cases for you.”

“Well, there is that….but you might still be grateful.”

“Not when you’ve ruined my evening, broken into my house, scared me into cracking my head open, and stolen my leftovers.”

Sherlock considered, frowning, then shrugged with a remorse more humorous than profound. “What are leftovers between friends?”

Lestrade turned, a crate of a dozen eggs in one hand and asked, wearily, “Yeah, ok—I’m your friend. Are you mine?”

Sherlock frowned. “I believe the term ‘friend’ is reciprocal.”

“No, sunshine. It’s not.” Lestrade closed the fridge door and started gathering his tools: skillet on the hob with a pat of butter melting, eggs quickly cracked into a bowl and blended with a fork before being poured in. As the eggs began to set in the pan, Lestrade quickly spread two pieces of bread with mayonnaise, then turned back to the stove, gathering the curds gently. When the eggs were set, he put the crate back in the fridge, washed the bowl and fork, and slipped the eggs into the sandwich, before pouring himself and Sherlock hot water from the kettle and joining the other man at the table.

Sherlock frowned, watching him lift the sandwich and bite in. “Whose failure of reciprocation are you suggesting?”

“Who’s the one who broke in and who’s the one with the wonking great sticking plaster on his head? Not to mention who’s the one who just scarfed up a pint of Chinese and who’s the one who had to make his own supper in spite of his injuries?”

“That doesn’t take the associated benefits of knowing me into account.”

“Mmmmmm?” Lestrade finished the first half of his sandwich and licked away the traces of egg and mayonnaise. “Such as?”

“Solved crimes.”

“Yeah? Enough of a plus to offset the pure bureaucratic hell you put me through at least once a year? Or the trouble you cause in my team and with my cases? Enough to offset all that when it’s not necessary, but a result of your damned vanity and lack of tact? Not to mention your refusal to believe rules have anything to do with you?”

“I’ve saved lives.”

“And who among us hasn’t, Sherlock?” Lestrade said with real annoyance. “Me? Mycroft? John? Hell, even Molly’s saved lives, Sherlock—some by actually just doing her job as a forensics tech. We don’t all go taking the piss out of everyone around, or turning their lives into living hell along the way, now, do we?”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes hard and reserved. His mouth tightened.

Lestrade sighed, and rubbed his face. “Crap. And now I’ve hurt your feelings.”

“I have no feelings.”

“Right. Pull the other, that one’s got bells on.”

“I should probably get home, now.”

“Oh, so early? And without badgering me about the Waters case?”

Sherlock stood and grabbed up the plate and the now empty box of mu gu gai pan. He shoved both into the sink and went stalking out. Lestrade rose and followed behind, frustrated.

“Damn it, Sherlock, you want it both ways, don’t you? You get to play all high and mighty, but the rest of us are supposed to compensate and treat you like those feelings you swear you don’t have matter.”

Sherlock rounded on him, eyes glittering. “Which they obviously don’t, or a man like you would have been up my arse trying to work out what I’m doing here breaking into your flat in the middle of the night demanding to work on a case with no immediate intrigue, with a man who’s made it clear he doesn’t want the help.”

“Fine—what are you doing here, then?”

Sherlock froze, trapped by his own words. His mouth opened—then shut. He blinked.

“Well?” Lestrade waited, then sighed in true exhaustion. “Hell, sunshine, I’m too tired and my head hurts and as Mycroft’s made all too clear, I’m past my prime. You’ll have to tell me, because damned if I’m guessing.” When Sherlock still didn’t reply, he nodded, and wandered back to the kitchen. He finished his tea and sandwich, tossed the mu gu gai pan box in the trash, washed the dishes and the skillet, and then wandered to his bedroom. He showered in the bathroom, keeping his injury dry. He brushed his teeth. He pulled on well-worn track pants and crept into bed, turning off his phone alarm so he could sleep in late.

He knew Sherlock was still in the other room, but he was frankly past caring.

He was just on the edge of sleep when the door opened and Sherlock stood silhouetted by the light from the sitting room. “What has Mycroft done to suggest you’re past your prime?”

“Go away, Sherlock.”

“Lestrade—what has my brother done?”

“Why do you care? One more bit of ammunition in your life-long battle to humiliate him?”

“Why would _you_ care? It’s not as though Mycroft were a friend of yours. Mycroft doesn’t do friends.”

“I’d noticed. Now go the fuck away, Sherlock. I’m trying to sleep.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.”

“Lestrade...”

“Why are you trying to talk me into letting you onto the Waters case?”

“It may relate to Moriarty’s return—to the new network. They began during the period I was away, and they consistently outmaneuver your forces and prepare for your best laid plans.”

“And it’s all logistics: no puzzle to solve at all.” Lestrade rolled to face away from the door and the glare. He pounded his pillow into a new shape to support his head, then wrapped himself in the blankets. “Nothing you’d be interested in. No mystery. No glory. Just planning and plodding and slow-motion strategy. More Mycroft’s field than yours.”

“Perhaps I simply wish to help you overcome your overwhelming lack of competence.”

“Well, the snide assessment’s you—but the desire to help on a boring case that’s really not much to do with you? No. Try again.”

‘What did Mycroft do? Demote you? Put you under the command of one of his clever young things?”

“Why aren’t you off pestering John to find you a case out of all the choices that show up in your email? John’s your real friend.” Lestrade took angry pleasure in the return sally: a good offense is a good defense.

“I see I hit too close to home. So—he’s phasing you out, then? Bringing in new young blood?”

“And John wouldn’t play with you because he’s got other things in his life now?”

Both were silent, then.

Sherlock closed the door softly, and came around the foot of the bed to settle uneasily. His hands rested in his lap, and Lestrade could see his face etched out in crisp profile by the dull light that seeped through the pulled window shade.

It was comparatively quiet in the room. There were the usual sounds of an urban flat in a nice neighborhood. They could hear the hum of the fridge, the low growl of traffic blocks away, a faint sound of music from one adjacent flat and of the telly from another. The upstairs neighbor walked quietly across the floor above.

Lestrade’s head hurt—both the dull ache of a headache and the sharp pain of the gouge from the fireplace. Hell, he thought. It had been a livable night, until Sherlock had showed up. Not great—but he’d been coping until then.

“He just pointed out that it was time for me to start planning,” he said. “Something about ‘either plan for retirement or plan for the sort of work no one ever forces you to leave.’ I said I liked what I did now, and he said it was a young man’s game—and left it at that. You know. That sort of big, nasty, pointed silence Mycroft can leave that says everything he didn’t and hurts twice as much as if he had?”

Sherlock snorted softly. “He has a talent for those silences. He has one about drugs that goes on for weeks, with annotations and side bars—all of them vicious.”

“Wouldn’t have minded if he’d cared it hurt,” Lestrade said. “He didn’t.”

He could hear Sherlock’s breath shift, as he took the words in, thought something, veered away from the thoughts—then shifted back. Speaking as though every word was forced out by sheer will power, he said, “It’s likely he does care, or he wouldn’t bring it up…or visit you with one of his silences. They’re intended as tact.”

“You think?”

“Oh, yes. He’s terrible at it.”

“So—he cares?”

“Not—not in any way that will ever make up for the silences,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade suddenly heard a mournful note he’d not noticed before. “He’s made his choices. I doubt he’ll ever choose again. This is as close as he’ll ever come to friendship, Lestrade—patronizing concern.”

Lestrade sighed, pulled the blankets tighter, and didn’t say a thing about wishing Mycroft could offer more—friendship, at the very least. “He’s lonely,” he said instead.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. Then, amazingly, he said, “It rather runs in the family.”

“You’ve got John. John and Mary and Molly and that Janine girl…even Mycroft.”

“And you. You came first before any of them but Mycroft.”

Lestrade didn’t answer.

“Am I really not your friend?” Sherlock said, voice puzzled and unsure.

Lestrade sighed. “You’ve got better friends, Sherlock. Me—I’m…convenient, yeah? You’ve got good use out of me over the years.”

“And you out of me.”

Lestrade didn’t say what, to him, was obvious: that Sherlock’s utility would never offset the cost of his acquaintance without the presumption of a friendship Lestrade had come to doubt.

“John has other things to do.”

“He’ll still have time for you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No. It’s not.”

Sherlock sighed. “I wonder where it will end,” he said. “Me, alone in Baker Street, with nothing left? No one left?”

“Join the club, sunshine. If I were to die today there might be a total of ten people at the funeral. Ten years from now there won’t even be that.”

The loneliness rose up and filled the room.

“Lie down and sleep, sunshine,” Lestrade said. “Just lie down and sleep.”

But Sherlock sat at the foot of his bed all night, eyes open—long after the older man fell into uneasy dreams. He wondered if they were friends—and if so, what they shared beyond crime, and this echoing emptiness waiting to be filled by people who had chosen other lives, and other loves, and left them to stagger on alone.


End file.
